


15 FatT Poems

by bircheswatching



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: 15 Days of FatT 2018, Multi, Poetry, The Divine Fleet, The New Archives, The Rapid Evening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-18 05:44:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13675455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bircheswatching/pseuds/bircheswatching
Summary: I am writing a poem for each of the 15 Days of FatT. Come see if I succeed! I'll add tags etc as I go.1. Dance: "They moved, an asymmetrical pair." [Jace and Addax above Vox, G]2. Sleep: A Lullaby for the Divine Fleet [text and audio, G]3. Metamorphosis: literally just a Kafka joke [Even Gardner, G]4. Vacation: Signet's Vice [Signet has a sexy tea party, E]5. Blades: a riddle from the records of the New Archives [the blade in the dark, G]6. Fire: Seabed City Meditation [G]7. Get Ready: Mystery Play [the history of the Divines, G]





	1. Dance: "They moved, an asymmetrical pair." [Jace and Addax above Vox, G]

There is a calm in the dance.

—When you leave off gnawing thought, to _know_.  
Each movement telegraphed by impulse,  
As though in brightly coloured lines of light.  
Each answering path clear,  
Governed by beats  
In the prelinguistic rhythm  
Of understanding.

Better to stay  
In the joy of the dance, than to see  
Each footprint marked in blood,  
Better to fly—

—When decisions are made final,  
And the task is clear, and all voices  
In unison  
Direct each movement to put the world  
to Order.


	2. Sleep: A Lullaby for the Divine Fleet [text and audio, G]

[[Let me sing you to sleep.](https://www.dropbox.com/s/9owia21nozmirqe/fishermen.mp3?dl=0)]

Oh, in a vicious sea,  
A coral reef can keep small fishes safe,  
But sunset hues can’t hide it’s built on bone.  
How small this school now swimming in their faith,  
Who in their fear begin to eat their own.

Oh, sleep now, sleep. The fishermen are watching.  
Sleep now sleep, your doom is not yet sure.

You hide from sharks who’re nipping at your heels,  
But down below a larger foe awaits.  
And little fish can’t see the fishers’ keels,  
But we’ll be here to keep your doom contained.

So, sleep now, sleep. As fishermen are watching.  
Sleep now sleep, your doom may not be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know shit about how to record audio, my friends, nor about writing songs.


	3. Metamorphosis: literally just a Kafka joke [Even Gardner, G]

One morning, when Even Gardner woke from troubled dreams,  
He found he had eaten the bed he’d been sleeping in.


	4. Vacation: Signet's Vice [Signet has a sexy tea party, E]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's literally just smut with very little context, what can I tell u.

1.  
“No,” she says, and gently takes the teapot from your hands.  
Her fingers don’t touch yours (not yet).  
You blush, but she forbids you even your apologies.

The tea is poured for you, steams rich and sweet.  
And in the absence of a task your fluttering hands alight around your cup.  
You meet her eyes, and at the slightest nod, you sip.

You could not say, in hindsight, what she said to you. Only: that it made no demands.  
(Another part of you smiled down distant from on high, indulgently withdrawn as well.)  
Together with the tea, her sweet, rich voice, washed gentle warmth into your bones.

The room is lit with soft clean light, like dawning sun diffused by unseen snow. You sit, for minutes, maybe years;  
time only marked by increments of falling shoulder, unclenched jaw, around the anchor of your steaming cup.

The crockery click of plates of cake set down’s a sudden shock, again you misstep in your startlement.  
She tuts at you and laughs, as you put down the serving knife: “If this goes on I’ll tie your hands behind your back.”

You have to clear your throat to speak—and you’re not sure it’s altogether wise.  
"It’d be a waste to not first eat this gorgeous cake.“ She smiles at you as though you’ve tripped a trap.

"Stay still.“ Your hands move on their own to settle flat (the tablecloth is soft and cool).  
Your efforts concentrated on maintaining steady breath and open eyes.  
She leans across you, close. The lack of touch a static charge that raises all the hair along your arms.  
She lifts a morsel on a golden, long-stemmed fork and brings it to your lips. You grant ingress.

The cake is spiced and ginger-hot and melts upon your tongue  
She smiles at you again and that, too, warms your face.  
Her gaze is without mercy and you dare not break it as she feeds you, piece by piece.  
It seems like there is too much blood in all your veins—a pitcher poised to fall and spill.

The spell is broken by a searing touch: finger and thumb below your jaw  
to keep you steady as her folded napkin wipes a stray crumb off your lips.  
Sitting back she gestures down, magnanimous. "Finish your tea, now."

2.  
You drain your cup; she pours another and you drink that, too.  
Sip by sip relinquishing your hold on what will happen next—if something happens next.  
Maybe you’ll drink this tea and nothing more—the future danes to her call, not yours; you know.  
Eventually, eventually she rises. A graceful gesture beckons you to follow. So you do.

You’re settled down on cushions on the floor, and feel a tugging on your scalp as gently she unwinds your hair from its tight braid.  
Systematically proceeds: her fingers cool where they just barely brush your heated skin.  
Your cape and dress unclasped, unwound, and pushed aside to tangle carless at your wrists.  
You shudder, and you sigh.  
Her hands are firmly on your shoulder now and push you down.  
Supine; silk cushions slick ephemera beneath your weight.

"Close your eyes.“ You do, grateful—everything is dazzling.  
"Lie still.“ Two fingers trace your lips. “Now open.”  
You wrap your lips around her fingers, suck and lave them with your tongue, until she takes them back.  
You blink, and breathe a small complaint—

She laughs, and pinches lightly at your waist,  
only a little pain, but sharp. “Eyes closed, I said.”  
You still. She traces now along your collarbones and to your breasts.  
The fingers wet and slick dragged round each nipple in its turn.

Methodical, just like she made and served the tea. Works her way down to trembling stomach, hips,  
(Here is your body, if it is yours. Here’s how it feels to be kneaded and stroked.)  
massages inner thighs, draws knuckles up along your folds—but pauses,  
always stops, to soothe you every time you tense. Maddening, maddening, what does she—  
She runs a hand across your brow and whispers soft encouragements into your ear,  
until with a long breath your hands release the cushions. And finally,

She moves to push apart your unresisting legs,  
press her fingers into you, sure, firm, steady motion,  
and grinds with the heel of her hand and lets you clench and clench and gasp—  
and the last small stone of stress is worn away and there you float, untethered and content.


	5. Blades: a riddle from the records of the New Archives [the blade in the dark, G]

From the Southern Library of the New Archives, Late pre-/Early post-Erasure Collection, Miscellaneous Scraps, Riddles Without Known Answers 25: 3-4

 _Sibling of sun     and splendour of moons_  
_Though born in blindness     my bold brother_  
_Full of fealty     fed me, feasting_  
_On each delicious dish     devotedly presented,_  
_We saw my stature     stretch and grow_  
_Until, beholding boyhood’s end     he brought me to the birthplace_  
_Where heedful of my hunger     he humbly handed me_  
_That final feast     that fell to me_  
_And each clamouring course     curdled ingenious ichor into_  
_A garnet gaze     such generous gift_  
_Now witness     my wise words_

[Here the fragment ends. It is unclear if any wisdom was originally appended, nor the nature of the speaker. I suspect it may have been an agricultural teaching riddle, given the themes of husbandry and slaughter, but others have suggested a religious interpretation.]


	6. Fire: Seabed City Meditation [G]

Come sit by the fire, in the lee of the dome.  
The smell of smoke, cooling sand, cooking food.  
Tonight, we sit round the fire,  
as we have for years.  
As we have for centuries.  
As we have for millennia:

Our first technology,  
thieved from the gods, they used to say.  
How many homes warmed by fire,  
How many mouths fed by fire,  
How many ores smelted by fire.

Take the meat off the fire, child. Do you hear  
the hiss and sizzle song as liquid fat leaves the flesh?  
Did you burn your hand, child. There is the second part of the lesson.

Our first recklessness,  
to give the fire all it would take.  
How many shelters razed by fire.  
How many lives lost to fire.  
How many guns fired.

Come sit with me by the fire, watch the dance.  
Orange flames, the wind twists the grey sand,  
and Weight passes above behind our guardian’s brow.  
Food cooked by the fire tastes good, child.  
But take care, oh take care, take care.

When you meet with gods on their terms,  
When you meet with fire on its terms,  
They’ll take more than you wanted to give, child.  
They’ll take more than you thought you had.


	7. Get Ready: Mystery Play [the history of the Divines, G]

The dressing rooms are bright.  
_The hangar is dark.  
_ Some meditation, some last-minute snacks.  
_Careful steps on echoing steel. A harsh whisper: Maintain comms blackout.  
_ The Mirage swirls and blooms on the stage.  
_Space pools outside like ink, blessedly, blessedly quiet.  
_ The excited hum of the crowd.  
_The constant hum.  
_ The contestants pull up around themselves the glittering cloaks of ancient gods, arrayed in bouncing anticipation,  
_The righteous shush their children as they squeeze on board. They hang a wreath above the door.  
_ they’ve lost so much, but there is comfort in knowing they’re not the first,  
_They have received a map, they have assembled a weapon, they are discovering faith—  
_ a ritual, a celebration to lift up the grieved. The crowd cheers.  
_The roar of takeoff clashes with the shriek of their pursuer, but they’re off._  
And they’re off.


End file.
